The Doctors
by CrossMyHearts
Summary: "I know how you feel." said the Doctor, his eyes glassing over again. "No, NO! You don't! No one does..." He cried, angrily. John was having none of it and his eyes grew watery...Sherlock was his best friend and he had killed himself. No one could understand. "I've lost things." The Doctor told him, quietly. PLEASE REVIEW- FIRST CROSSOVER!
1. Chapter 1

******Hi Guys! This popped into my head, pretty sure it's been done before but I thought I'd take a shot!**

**Please Review :)**

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**The Doctors**

Snow fell silently onto central London. It was quiet and it was lonely. Taxi's and cars sped down the main street, all blurring together, and ferrying random people, with random lives , random jobs, who still had random friends.

Dr John Watson limped down the London sidewalk. His sandy blond hair was neatly partitioned, his polo shirt concealed by a thick, blue woollen jumper he favoured, underneath a drab, average, beige coat. He gripped his cane as he manoeuvred his way across the icy pavement, avoiding black ice and frost.  
He sighed, his other hand gripping a flimsy bag filled with bland food, ready to be put in a bare fridge, that held no organs or blood bags. Was it weird that he missed that?  
He had moved out of the formidable 221B Baker Street. Mrs Hudson had been sad but understood. Since 'The Fall' he had been to the apartment a total of only 3 times. Once was after he was out of the hospital, fresh from the incident as he called it. He would never say it out loud. Except from one time in therapist's office. That was hard. Sherlock...was- ah! He sighed, he couldn't even think about it. He turned a corner.  
The second and third time had been before and after the...the funeral. Sherlock's stupid science stuff and his eyeballs in the microwave.  
John shook his head, ridding his toughs from his head.  
He turned off the main street down a little alley and then he walked down a familiar path, through the park where he first heard of the illusive and quirky Sherlock Holmes. As he walked, Dr John Watson thought about his friend- best friend- before the fall.

"John..." said a clip voice, standard English. John shrugged it off. He hadn't talked to the refined gentleman that it was sure to be. Mycroft had slunk back into his hole, back behind the scenes, controlling it all. He hadn't spoke to John since the report and the press.  
"Look, Mycroft. You cannot just..." He replied, before being butted and interrupted by the fine tone.  
"I'm not Mycroft." John heard the ghost of a smile and turned round his brow furrowed with puzzlement, wondering who on earth wanted to talk to a blogger? His eyes widened with recognition as he saw the familiar figure.  
On a bench, the bench in fact where he had first heard of the apartment free, was a man. A man, dressed in a shirt, with a tweed jacket and too-short jeans that showed off polished, gleaming boots, laces tied-up to the max. His face was set, old, old eyes staring out from under a high brow. His nose was broad and his jaw was square. Brown, floppy hair was tucked back and styled and his legs were crossed as he lay back against the wooden back rest.  
"Doctor." he said, leaning on his cane.  
"I got your message." said the Doctor, looking down, a sadness creeping in as he surveyed his friend after the death of another. John had a pain, a pain that he could quickly identify. He'd been through it a lot of times. With Rose, Donna, Martha, Sarah-Jane and River.  
"Yes...I can see that." said Watson, bringing his friend out of his daydreaming. John limped over and sat down on the cold, hard bench.  
"How have you been?" said the Doctor, looking at him.  
"How do you think?" He cleared his throat, leaning back against the wood.  
"I know how you feel." said the Doctor, his eyes glassing over again.  
"No, NO! You don't! No one does..." He cried, angrily. He tried to stand up but the Doctor held him back with a flat palm. John was having none of it and his eyes grew watery...Sherlock was his best friend and he had killed himself. No one could understand.  
"I've lost things." The Doctor told him, quietly.  
"He was my best friend."  
"I've lost friends." said the Doctor, looking away from John and staring out. Oh, yes. He'd lost many, many friends. The Ponds, it was less than 1 month in someone's time since Manhattan and the wounds were still fresh. They were ok, and then they were gone. Away. Like everyone else and everything else. John looked at his friend.  
"Who?" He said softly, like a gasp.  
"Amy...and Rory." replied the Doctor, clapping his hands together and giving a sad little smile.  
"I'm sorry." said John. He rubbed his forehead, letting the news sink in. He'd met the Ponds, once or twice on many mis-adventures. They were nice people. He took one of the Doctor's hands in an attempt to console his friend. The Doctor gave him a painful smile and he mirrored it. Then John gave a small laugh.  
"It's just us, isn't it?"  
"Seems that way." The rueful smile was injected with humour and the eyes sparkled again, however dull. Sherlock was gone...and so were the Ponds.  
"So...you got my message?" John said, trying to get onto topic. He turned to the Doctor, trying to sound light-hearted as he wiped away a tear then sniffed, as if it was going to keep his emotions at bay.  
"Yes..." The Doctor didn't look at him, his eyes dancing to look at everything but John's face.  
"Doctor?" A tremble was apparent, the word quivering like a violin string. It had to be possible...one last miracle. But the Doctor shot him down.  
"You know I can't do anything." replied the Doctor, his voice shaking. John stood up, taking a few steps away from the bench before swivelling around to look at him.  
"You have...a TARDIS!" cried John, caution to the wind he then looked up at the sky, hoping to see the blue box seeking to go and save his friend.  
"You know I can't!" said the Doctor, who put his head in his hands, a look of pure sadness in his eyes. If he could, who knows what he would have done? There was Susan, and Sarah Jane, Brigadier and the Ponds. Oh, he could have saved them all. Every single one of them. And Sherlock. But he couldn't. Cures of the Timelord, he thought ruefully.  
"Doctor...what's the point." said John, his voice a contrast now, it was cool and icy, thick with venom.  
"The point...?" The Doctor looked up at him.  
"The point of you. If you can't do this..." John broke down and sat back on the bench, his face resting in his hands, tears now fighting their way out, begging to be spilt. "Then what's the point of you?" He finished, gasping, eyes wide. What was the point of a stupid time machine if you couldn't save your BEST friend!  
"John you don't understand."  
"No, I understand perfectly, Doctor!" he shouted.  
"John..." The Doctor motioned for him to calm down but he couldn't this is what he couldn't show his therapist. He want to laugh, he wanted to scream he wanted to cry and beg.  
"My friend is dead!" He shouted to the world, snow falling fast now, flakes covering the back of his neck, seeping into the jumper. He didn't mind though, at least he could feel it.  
"So are mine."  
"You can change that!"  
"You know I can't."  
"Yes! You CAN! Don't tell me that you can't!"  
"John. I can't"  
"YOU HAVE TO!" The tears fell freely now, streaking from John's eyes down and down and soaking into the blue jumper. The Doctor's eyes welled.  
"Do you not think if I could I wouldn't be...alone, right now? All of them, every single one! Everyone!" The Doctor' stood up pacing, his jaw working furiously to hold back the water works, a stray hand rubbing it furiously. John stared up, eyes wide, and saw pain. He stood up.  
"Ok, Doctor. I'm sorry. For doing that. It was-" He cleared his throat, and looked down at his shoes before returning his eyes to the Doctor.  
"That's ok. Sorry to you too." He said, chuckling to shrug off pain. For that was what he had always done, at least for the regeneration.

And they both parted ways. The lonely men, the singles. Those who all were gone.

And in the park, watching over them was a man, in a blue scarf, a long coat with it's collar turned up to look cool. A tear ran over the sociopath's cheekbones as he watched his friends depart.  
And over in the other field, near the playground were two children by the names Angie and Artie, playing whilst being minded by one Clara Oswald.


	2. Chapter 2

**Ok so I thought I may continue this, a series of both Doctor's grief. Etc...so here it is.**

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**One Doctor Watson**

The wall was unimportant and yet Dr John Watson had been staring at it for the past 38 minutes. It was bland and a pasty green, but very, very boring, not a single gunshot hole or a smiley face sprayed yellow with a aerosol on it. Yes, this was a wholly ordinary wall.  
John sat on the bed, as still as a statue; shoulders back, jaw set and hands on his knees with vacant eyes. His head throbbed and they crashed into his hands, his hair longer, for what was the use of a haircut...what was the use of it all. He'd not left the drab apartment, not wanting to. The fridge was bare except for a few groceries he'd collected a day ago.  
His conversation with the Doctor hadn't helped, he was just so frustrated, for what was the point of it all? The Timelord had a TARDIS and couldn't change what needed to be. Couldn't change what had to be. His breathing grew laboured and his chest uneven as he mulled theses thoughts over, his eyes brimming, stinging with tears itching to fall. But he wouldn't let them. Another thing wouldn't fall.

Sherlock.

He remembered being in the hospital, waking up. Drowsily, blinking multiple times a stretching his jaw, he had looked around blearily, to see the gaunt face of Mrs Hudson. Foolishly, he had had smiled. Smiled! He'd not done that for an age, he thought. But he had then. Of course he had thought it was a nightmare. A nightmare brought on by something leaking or worming its way into his system that Sherlock had left around the flat. That was plausible and much more believe able than Sherlock being...well.  
"Ah! Hello, Mrs Hudson! Where- Where's Sherlock?" he had said, groggily but sickeningly bright. Mrs Hudson's face had fallen at these words, the horror dawning on her face as the aged army doctor sat up in his bed. She went over, her eyes shining, plumping the pillow. Then Dr John Watson knew something was horribly, desperately, terribly and unequivocally wrong.  
"Oh, John." The memories came back as Mrs Hudson uttered the words. Sherlock. The Call. 'This is my note, John.' Oh God. His throat had caught, a lump quickly forming. But it couldn't been, he had thought, his head plonking downwards on the plush pillow. His hands reached for his head, rubbing his forehead before falling without grace onto the blanket as he tried to comprehend the information. Sherlock...dead. Suicide.  
He was brought back from the fog of his thoughts by a cool, small hand grasping his own. He looked up to see Mrs Hudson crying.  
His therapist had tried -and failed- to help. He never talked about him or if he did, never by name, just 'his best friend' or on worse days 'him'. The therapist just sat there, pursing her lips and taking down stupid notes about stupid things and saying all the things that was blatantly obvious.

John pulled his head out of the memories, the mattress sagging and then pulling upwards as he got up, staggering he reached for his cane, the wooden stick becoming his only companion again. He groaned with the effort as he moved over to the wooden desk. He grunts, placing the cane to hang on the edge of the desk. He has to.  
The draw in the desk opens slowly, creaking and revealing the item inside.  
A revolver stares at him, coaxing him. Dr John Watson picks it up, his hand shaking and his eyes closed as he lets out a gasping breath he didn't know he'd been holding. His lips thinned to a tight line, grief clogging his sight.  
It never got any better for him, ever. Not after this, what was he supposed to do? He was a cripple, with no job, no friends. What was he living for?  
One bullet, one bullet and one second and it'll all be over. In the end, he had given up. He gave up. His time was up.  
A silent tear fell from his closed eyes, He was just...nothing.  
The gun trembled against his temple, his arm frozen and locked. One...move. One and it'll be over. He sobbed, an anguished cry escaped from his mouth as he lowered the gun. He couldn't.  
Then he sat on his bed and stared again at the ordinary wall.

It was the 34th time he had failed.

It was also the 34th time a lone and small tear had escaped the right eyes of Sherlock Holmes.

**Review= Love! Xx**


	3. Chapter 3

**Hey Guys! Thought I would take a break from my other fanfictions. I have done the terrible thing f having to many to update! But this is a one shot I posted previously on my account but it fit in very well here! So here we are!**

**saffarinda: I don't enjoy bringing pain! God no! Thank you for favorite-ing this! If you want to be cheered up then please check out a couple of my other fan fics which are alot more fluffy!**

**As always, if you like it, please review. And if anyone has any prompts for another one-shot or fan fic then I'll see what I can do for you guys!**

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The Doctor's hearts were breaking. Amelia Pond and Rory Williams. The Girl who Waited and the Last Centurion. The Legs and the Nose. Gone.

He sat alone in his TARDIS. The gold walls and console glittered, a mirror of the drabby outside of the blue box. He sat on the leather chair. His face in his hands, quietly sobbing, Amelia's glasses protruding out of the worn brown tweed, her afterword crumbled in his hand.

Why? Why this? Why, every time he had someone- a friend, a family- did the universe rip it away. After all he had done, all the worlds he had many, to many times. Some left, some died and some forgot he was ever there...or wished to. He couldn't...not another one. Why after all this time? They had lives! And River, Brian...Oh God.

He rocked back and forth, crying. His sobs once again full of the torment he tried so well to hide. It broke his hearts every time to see them go. He thought he this time was different. Wished it was. Stupid, _stupid _Doctor. He thought, of course it wasn't. It was that unfair.

**NO! **His mind screamed with angry resolve. It couldn't be...he had done to much. He jumped up a steely resolve with a mad glint in his eyes, straightening his bow tie, her ran towards the console. Pushing levers and throwing switched. He spinned the Atom Accelerator. Determined.

The TARDIS gave a huge groan of disapproval. But he would not be erred. Come. Along. Pond! With each of these he through levers. Groaning with the effort. He would get them back. **He would get them** _**back**__._ He charged furiously around, the TARDIS trying to stop him going to 1938. Manhattan. He would get them back.

The universe owed him that. He was owed so much. One thing. One thing. "Come on, sexy!" He shouted. Sparks flew, she hated it, could get there. But she had to. The Doctor took know notice, anger spurring him on. He would not let another go. The TARDIS heaved with the effort, sending the Doctor sprawling away from the console as the TARDIS moved, careering this way and that, hating the journey. He scrambled back to the console, holding on for dear life. He flicked the blue stabilizers.

_"Because you're my friend. My best friend."_

He let out a scream of anguish as the TARDIS flamed around him, sparks flying and smoke pluming. He couldn't give up. **"Come ONNNNN! ONE THING! ONE THING!"** He looked upwards, praying. He had never prayed before.

But it was not to be. The fires grew to great and the TARDIS hated it. My Pond, he cried, tears falling fresh again. My Amelia Pond...

And so the TARDIS flew away, smoking, crashing and resetting its coordinates. And the Doctor sat down again in his now charred seat, crying and letting out howls of pain for his lost family. His Ponds.

_**Gone.**_


	4. Chapter 4

**Hello! By Sweet Gallifrey and on the Holy Deerstalker- it's an update! This was going to be 2 chapters in itself but I decided to pop them together for one big long one.**

**Reviews= Love**

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**The End Where I Come In**

The Doctor moved slowly around the TARDIS console. Even the old girl seemed to be in mourning; her usually vibrant humming replaced with duller, low and mournful tones that went on and on. He stroked the gold and copper sides as he thought to himself.

Why did they always have to go? Why couldn't he have done something else? He should've done something else. God, he was old. Too old. He'd seen stars born and stars die out, planets destroyed and civilisations flee and fly. He pulled over the cracked screen to sit in front of his face, his reflection staring back at him inside the black screen.

His bowtie was frayed at the edges, loose around his neck and drooping. The usually pristine tweed was beginning to ware, crumbs dotted around his binge Jammie Dodgers session that had inexplicably happened two days ago, just to see if it'd help. It didn't. Nothing did.

Every time it happened, when he lost someone or something, or some-robot in the case of the old tin dog, everything reminded him of that fact. He slapped the screen away, stalking over to sit on his chair. Rubbing at his eyes, he thought of the past few weeks, months, seconds or whatever it was to whoever you were. To him though, it was 7 weeks. He'd tried adventures- visited Draji and Strako.5 and the legendary underwater city of Atta which was like Atlantis but about 500 light-years away in _that _direction on the Fitz Moon. But every so often he'd forget himself, smile and crane his neck back to brag about how Draji was known throughout the universe for having one mountain that went through the planets core; right down the middle like a shard, two identical peaks at either side of the sand planet, back to the spunky, Scottish red head and her endearing, lanky husband. But then he'd turn around, arms splayed to no reply, and he'd see the empty space. He'd look down at his feet, his smile falling of his face. No Scottish burr and no Nose. Then he'd sit down, cross legged and oblivious to whoever or wherever or _whenever_ he was, crying silently, watching the alien skies grow darker and darker.

The Doctor put his head in his hands.

"Why can't you talk to me? Hmmm? It's always you and me, old girl. But you're not there. Otherwise you'd be _here._" He spoke softly. Sexy just hummed softly, feeling her thief's pain. For although she was a machine, she was there, and she was alive. No matter what the dim-witted Timelord thought. So she had an idea, a spark. Giving a great noise, she flew through the time vortex. The Doctor careered off the chair and into the console, banging his head with a thump. "Oof!" he said, his face wincing as he crawled out, trying to stand on the leaning glass floor.

"Ack!" He said, involuntarily as the TARDIS gave another shudder, sending his back into the centre. The old girl was trying to send him off. Off on an 'adventure'. Gallivanting across some planet or some time stream.

"Stop." He said. The TARDIS still hummed and shifted, sending down the steps and stopping short of the coat rack. He got up. "Stop it! Stop! Just stop it!" He roared running back up, half tripping and half charging back up towards the console. She was a fool. A foolish time machine! He didn't want that anymore. Words rang in the Doctor's head, from a long ago age.

_The monsters and the Doctor. It seems you cannot have one without the other._

She was wrong. Madame De pompadour had been wrong in one key aspect. He was the monster.

_It's not that you make people take risks; it's that you make them want to impress you_

He did, oh by high Gallifrey, he did. Every one of them. He'd taken a Doctor in training and turned her into a warrior; he'd taken a shop girl and made her into a warrior. Hell, all of them were fighters. All of them fought in his name. Doctor.

_The man who can turn an army around at the mention of his name: Doctor. The word for healer and wise man throughout the universe._

He wasn't though. Not really. He'd broken that promise before, he just broke things. Broke them and cast them off because they weren't allowed a happy ending, he wasn't allowed an ending because someone up there had it in for him! He grunted and screamed 'STOP!" The TARDIS shrugged him off but he held on this time, darting around to press buttons and pull levers and do-hickeys. The TARDIS jolted and shuddered, halting. He panted, breathing. In and out, his two hearts working furiously from underneath the tweed. He had had enough, done enough. He was too old. Too old for anyone this. He walked slowly around again, his limbs dragging along, his formerly angry face; screwed up with pent up grief and fury at it all, crumbled revealing a hurt, grieving and sad face. His age was showing, the eyes held those of an old, old man. The man with the weight of the world in his eyes and the weight of the universe on his shoulders. Some scars won't ever fade. He listed them in his head, counting them off.

…Rose Tyler, Martha Jones, Donna Noble, Rory Williams, River Song, Amelia Pond…he choked on them. Looking up at the matrix, he sighed and rubbed a careful thumb against the cylinder core of his box.

"I can't, dear. Every time. I just- I just. Sometimes, we don't learn from our mistakes, eh? But, this time we have to. Otherwise, what? I'll get someone else to travel with me? And destroy those lives? Those bright, glorious futures!" He looked down, his jaw working furiously to contain the tears. It was times like these when the mask slips. The mask he'd tried to build up in this regeneration.

He'd lost so much in the last. So much and it'd hurt. So be proclaimed funny and weird by a little Scottish girl in the middle of Leadworth was…a relief. He'd tried travelling alone, thought it was best. Perhaps it still was. It'd gone wrong though. He'd brought it with him, the ghosts. Taking them with him all though it all. The end of his last body, that wasn't the Curse of the Timelord. It was the blessing. A blessing, for him, a new start. He'd thought he'd leave it all, thought it wouldn't hurt, but it did.

The only thing this regeneration did was help him keep it in more, help him to mask it; keep it hidden from the Scot and the Centurion.

Goodbye, Raggedy Man.

That was true enough. Raggedy Man; the imaginary friend who was funny and happy and wore a fez. And he still wore a fez now and then, but the happiness was gone, drained and taken away like Pond by the Angel.

**Goodbye, Raggedy Man.**

**Hello, Doctor.**


	5. Chapter 5

**Hello My Lovelies! How are you? I am well thank you! **

**This is dedicated to my new followers. Thank you very much! Review= Love.**

**P.S I don't mean to make people cry. It just turns out I am very good at it and this fic helps me with my feels.**

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**The Doctors: Nothing is cured**

John ran. Ran and ran on and on, his coat splaying behind him, his voice shouting something, he didn't know what. The sounds of his steps echoed in his ears as he ran along the endless pavement to the road.

Sherlock.

The figure was there, with the turn up on his collar and the gold buttons polished. The scarf was there, even the stupid deerstalker. He wanted to be found. He called again, the words thins time reaching his ears.

Sherlock.

He wasn't facing him. Why wasn't he facing him? Those ruddy cheekbones, he thought. His best friend. There. Alive. How? Oh, it didn't matter how, he was ALIVE. The git! He was still running, getting closer and closer, he shot a hand out to hail his friend, make him turn around. Why wasn't he turning around?

Sherlock!

Then the figure turned around, the black shoes moving around the pavement, the long trench coat, swishing gracefully as he turned. John slowed to a jog. He wore a purple shot and the bloody scarf. John's eyes trailed up to his face and his heart turned to ice.

Sherlock was covered in blood. Red and flowing from his forehead. His black hair was shiny and damp with it. Oh God. His face was pale; deathly pale and gashes lined his face, his forehead creased. Oh God. His eyes were like those of a blind man; grey, ghostly and blank. Oh God. John staggered. Oh God. He fell. Oh God. The standing corpse of the consulting detective slowly, slowly raised an arm and pointed at the collapsed John whose head was pounding and hands shaking as badly.

"John." OH GOD!

He woke with a start, his head throbbing, tears clutching at his cheeks and his eyelashes. He sniffed and lay there, trying to forget it. Then he blinked. The blood, the eyes. Help me. The dream had been recurring, he'd been given hope, and then it was taken away, much like his best friend. God knows what that does to a person. He rubbed his forehead, now becoming more awake and in turn, more frightened. He reached over, his bad leg sending pains shooting upwards, and clicked on a ghastly, aging lamp.

_You were my best friend. The most human. The most annoying, self-centred and most brilliant man I ever met. You knew everything about me and I knew nothing of you. But then I did. I was so…alone before I met you and I owe everything to you. So why? Why are you dead? Because if there is one person in God's world that shouldn't be…it's you. No one will tell me you are a fraud and you were a daft get for thinking I'd would believe them. _

_Sherlock. Don't be dead._

John pulled the covers up around him, the light still on, for he was scared to turn it off, and hoped, stupidly, that the dream wouldn't come again.

**It did.**


	6. Chapter 6

**PLEASE READ::: Hello! This Chapter is a bit different because as well as doing my one shots I wanted to make a multi chapter thing. But this depends entirely on YOU! YES YOU! Basically, you control what happens by sending ideas or prompts via review. Ok?**

**Got it? Do it!**

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**The Doctors: Due Date Part 1**

"John?" The clip voice of a fretful Mrs Hudson rang through the mobile speaker. He'd answered the call against his better judgement. He sighed against the speaker, his head resting on his arm as he sat at his desk after attempt 36.

"Hello, Mrs Hudson." He said, his voice still managing to break despite all his will. Damn.

"Hello, dear. How are you?" The old lady's voice was filled with concern and John could imagine her sat in next door's café on one on the smaller tables decorated with a plastic checked tablecloth. The phone pressed to her ear by a wrinkled and delicate hand and her eyes forcefully staring out, not looking at the _married _owner, because all though he had lied to her they did make a good cuppa. John gave a small smile as he replied.

"Same as ever, Mrs Hudson." He realised then he did not know her first name. The landlord had given no name on the lease or even an initial. Sherlock would have known. Of course.

"That's good." The tone made him question whether or not she believed him. He stretched in the armchair, a hand absentmindedly moving over to the cane that hung on the armrest.

"Is…is there a reason you called?" He murmured.

"Yes, as a matter of fact. You see, there is all this stuff…left. Sherlock's- "John sucked in a breath. "-stuff and I was wondering if you could come and collect it. The stench is terrible and I can't rent out the place if there is a decapitated head in the fridge, can I?" Mrs Hudson rambled on. Funny. John was smiling. Odd. Very Odd.

"So, I say to the tenant next to you that he'll have to put up with it, that the man better watch his tone because I won't have him…John?" He was brought back out from the deep clouds of his thought.

_I was wondering if you could come and collect it._

"Hmm? Oh…yeah…yeah." He said, he blinked rapidly. He had not been sleeping well. And by well he meant at all. Nightmares.

"Oh, good." Said Mrs Hudson, pleased. "Oh and John?" He switched his attention back to the voice. It didn't sound good. He didn't want her to ask how he was again. He couldn't answer. He had no idea and he didn't like lying to the chirpy landlady.

"Yes?" He said, cautiously.

"How are you?" He blinked.

"I...said." He stated slowly.

"No you didn't." Mrs Hudson was wise, John wasn't coping well. She'd checked with his therapist. But she wasn't his mother, mind. She was his friend. He hadn't gone to the last few. And his answer before was vague and pitiful. Same as when?

"Mrs Hudson" He started to say but the lady cut in with a passionate tone.

"Don't you Mrs Hudson me. I lost a husband and even though he was a criminal and I hated his guts. Oh, he was a funny man. But the point is it still hurt. I was glad to be rid of the ungrateful bugger but it hurt-"

"Stop…stop, Mrs Hudson." She stopped. "I am…fine. As well as can be expected." He cleared his throat. "I'll collect the…the things."

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**There you have it! Its a bit short and I hope I got Mrs Hudson OK. Anyway, send in your prompt via review or PM me**


	7. Chapter 7

**The Doctors: Silence and Miracles**

The silence in the apartment is deafening, left behind by the gap that was made by the death of Sherlock Holmes. John sits on his bed again, his hands in his lap, pressed together in a prayer he does every day. But John didn't believe in God. Not since the one thing that shouldn't have happened…did. The IKEA alarm clock red in red, digital numbers that the time was 9:34 in the morning. He had had a fitful night's sleep once again, his brief moments of serenity cut down by a dagger of nightmares. They had started to get creative now. One where John was flying, felt hope sore as he flew to catch his friend, but instead getting an aerial shot of the death. He refused to call in suicide. He was forced into that. Sherlock wasn't a fraud. No matter how many times he read or Lestrade said it or Mrs Hudson debated, John's view remained strong. But unfortunately that was the only part of him that had remained so. His legs groaned with the slightest movement and he had worn out the inner notches of his wide belt, having lost pound after pound. He couldn't stomach food and his eyes had lost the shine, instead the blue orbs hung low and were surrounded by wrinkles and puffs as the result of his insomnia.

John didn't disturb the silence, instead he took solace from it and left it be. It was all he had left of Mr Holmes. He sighed shakily, his breathing laboured and uneven, chest rising up and down. Then slowly, ever so slowly, he brought his knees up. Ignoring the twitch, no, embracing the twitch of pain that shot through his war injury, he fell back onto the plain old bed, the sheets all in knots from the twisting and turning that happened during the nights. He was tired, so tired. He fell slowly and his body sank down. Tears streamed down his face, soaking his dry skin, falling over his cheeks to drop into his chest. He curled up, there, on the bed and let out a scream.

It was a scream which tore at his heart, a scream for everything. A scream of vengeance, of denial, of acceptance, of loss, of grief and of heartache. Why? Sherlock….gone. His feelings were torn, broken and cast off. The hurt he felt was unimaginable to anyone else but him. But John, they were indescribable. He cried and cried out, his eyes screwed shut and letting it all out until his throat was red raw and he was left gasping, his eyes flying wide. Why? Sherlock…gone.

Still waiting for that miracle

Silence. It engulfed him, threading to the farthest corners of the TARDIS, reaching deep into the eternity of the never ending box.

He'd tuned out the TARDIS's soft, thrumming hums. There was no one there and that was the thing. That was the _problem_. The TARDIS, usually bursting with energy and fun and red hair was floating through space, empty and solitary. There was nothing and the lack of anything was tumultuous.

Too many fixed points, time streams and paradoxes for there to be anything again. His jaw shook and he whimpered as he let out a small cry for help which echoed around him. His hand balled into fists, almost as a reflex to keep in the tears. He was so used to hiding, hiding his emotions and hiding secrets. Secrets kept him safe. Secrets kept him alone.

The Doctor looked down at his feet, the boots faded without daily polishing clicked on the glass floor which below that were the many wires and circuits of the TARDIS console. He clenched his fists over and over, as though to focus the hurt and dispense of it like radiation. No. He was alone and perhaps that was the best. He walked silently. His hand reached out to stroke the many buttons and levers as he walked around the console with slow and steady steps.

No, the silence was welcomed. Alone and protected. Isolated from harm, from hurt and from him hurting anyone else. Amy…Rory. He closed his eyes.

"The Angel, would it send me back to the same time? To him?" Amelia Pond, standing there, back to him. He could hear the sobs and vision the tears falling down her pale face. He wants to go to her, pull his arms around her and drag her back to the TARDIS to safety. She can't do this! She can't leave him. But he is rooted to the spot

"I don't know. Nobody knows." He cried, flinging his arms out. No, Pond. Please!

"But it's my best shot, yeah?" Her voice wavers.

"No!" He shouts, pain searing in his two hearts. They can get Rory, get him and stay together, the Doctor and his Ponds. Surely?

The Doctor opens his eyes suddenly. He staggers to the chair and flops down on it, instantly crossing his legs and putting a hand to his forehead. The hand shakes so badly as it raises to touch his furrowed brow. He rubs his forehead before remembering more.

He is practically on his knees, begging her to stay. She can't go! She can't leave him alone, not like the others, not again. River is standing close to her, not looking at him.

"You are creating fixed time. I will never be able to see you again." He roars. She has to listen! She has to! Why? Please…Pond! Amy gulps, her tone is broken and sad as she speaks.

"I'll be fine. I'll be with him." She says, the Doctor sobs, his eyes screwed up with pleading and sadness. No! He cowers down, his legs like lead, pulling him into the abyss. She can't! He hears a sob from her lips, her ginger hair flying around as he rocks on the balls of his feet as thought to catch her.

"Amy, please, just come back into the TARDIS. Come along, Pond, please." He walks towards her inching forwards, holding out a hand, tears stream down his face and it all he can do not to cry out and scream at her, to pull her back into the TARDIS. He can't tell what she is going to do. His mouth moves but no sound comes out after that. He sees her slight nod but he will not feel relief. Not yet. Not until she is with him. Safe.

"Raggedy man," She says. What is she doing? What the HELL is she doing? No, No! As if in slow motion her head turns to face him and he sees the pain etched on her face and her lips move. "…goodbye!"

She is there, momentarily and then gone! Gone. Sucked away from him. He freezes, his hand outstretched and he turns.

The Doctor opens his eyes again from the painful memory. No. No. No. Why couldn't the universe let the Ponds stay?

One more miracle.

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**Another Chapter guys! PLEASE REVIEW! I love you all - Heather**


	8. Chapter 8

**Hi Guys! I now realize I have 10 followers of my fic! I am so proud thank you all!**

**Anyway, on with the chapter...**

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**The Doctors: Not the King**

"Believe. For 20 minutes, that was what I said to her that day. 12 years after the 5 minutes." The Doctor sighed, his hands clasped together, his legs waving and feet clicking together as he sat outside on the TARDIS step, doors behind him, his feet dangling into the great universe and the stars and nebulas and galaxies all spread out in front of his. Different shades of any colour you could imagine wove and tangled together to create one beautiful, messy canvas. He loved it, the detail and the simple-ness that was just…it. Space. The Final Fr- no wait that was Star Trek. The Universe, in all her glory. Empty, alone, like him.

The Doctor wore a sad little smile, his chin all drawn up in frustration and sadness which he somehow blended together into one expression.

"She had and the world was saved. But she'd continued to trust me. They all had. But I didn't deserve that trust and I couldn't live up to expectations. I never can. They blind me and I blind them. The Doctor. And his companions." He forced the last word out in a grumble, looking down at his hands that were interlaced in his lap.

"Gotcha." He said bitterly, looking up again. All those stars, all those people, creatures and elderly women. He hated it. How many lives had he ruined? How many had he lost? How many had died because HE couldn't prevent it. And he'd tried. Oh, he had tried.

"Every time. I try and I try. For you…" He chokes, a slender hand reaching up to wipe a broad nose, his eyes unblinking as they begin to water. "The Universe. Big ol' you. And for what? What do I get in return? Hm? All this…" He gestured around him, throwing his arms out to survey the golden and intricate expanse before him. "For what? For WHAT?" He clicked his heals together rapidly, unable to stamp his feet for fear of falling off. He gets to his feet. Using his hands to hold onto the corners of the great blue box, he leans out, shouting out all his frustrations and misery and loneliness and sadness and utter, utter defeat. It was a pained scream of a wounded animal, a dog kicked to the curb and abandoned. His face was red by the time he had stopped, breathing ragged and uneven. His chest rose and fell. He looked around his, puts a hand through his hair as if he has only just realised where he is. He huffs, ruffling his hair a bit more, before anger creeps up on his again, twisting his gut until he feels sick.

"YOU DID THIS?" He roars at the Universe, his head reeling. "You do this…and you rip everything. Everyone. I save worlds, I saved countless universes an-and for…for what? To have a FAMILY. An actual family, again. And then get it RIPPED AWAY AND CRUMPLED…like it was a piece of paper in the wind…" He looks down again, his thoughts running wild, his hands shaking as he moved them vigorously to proclaim his anger. "I do all this! And what is my reward, hmm? WHAT DO I GET?" He looks down at the floor. Always the same, and if the Doctor had believed in some sort of higher power, he would look to it but no. Time had taught him one thing at that he was alone. Always and terrifyingly so. He had had it. It was all ruined. Again. He was left alone AGAIN. And nothing was ok.


	9. Chapter 9

**Please don't shoot! I am SO sorry I have been away! With holidays and family and stuff I haven't had time to update. BUT, good news, this is an update ****_obviously _****and ALSO I have been drafted in to write a script for an fan audio series episode so I have that to do as well, I am about 1/2 way through. Not bad for a 15 year old ;)**

**Anyway- here we are, PLEASE REVIEW**

**Heather x**

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**The Doctors: Phone Call**

The Doctor sat beneath the TARDIS console, sat between the many wires, tubes and plugs on the underside of the glass floor, swinging slightly as the old leather swing swayed with his movements. His hands were covered in grease, oil and some alien stuff that I really can't explain right now, as he grasped an old rag in one hand and the other was stretched up, checking the connections and coils; tinkering with a haphazard smile on his face that resembled that of a 12 year old boy who had gotten the perfect toy at Christmas. Suddenly, the loud and blaring tone of the TARDIS phone rang through in the Time Lord and Sexy's quality time.

"Ponds!" He called out, not liking being disturbed and hoping that either the Legs or the Nose would get it. He hadn't the time and if it was Marilyn again…well. But it continued to ring. "Ponds! The phone!" He shouted from his hiding place. Then a voice answered the TARDIS corridors.

"Get it yourself!" shouted Amy, the annoyance obvious in her voice. The Doctor gulped. Perhaps it was better if he got it himself. Humans and their lie-ins, thought the Doctor. He shook his head and grumbled as he hopped down from the swing, pulling his suspenders back onto his lean shoulders, fixing his bow tie before charging up (with all the grace of a baby deer learning to walk) up the TARDIS steps and towards the console rather quickly, the phone still ringing.

He cleared his throat, picked up the frankly annoying phone and answered with a chipper voice. "Hello! This is the Doctor! If you have this phone number then you have a problem which I can help with!"

"Doctor." A level, clip and emotionless voice crackled through the phone speaker. The Doctor knew exactly who it was as he shoved his goggles from his eyes onto his forehead, gripping the phone tighter.

"Mycroft Holmes. If this is a bout Torchwood again-"He started to say, but the gentleman cut him off.

"I made…a mistake, Doctor." Said Mycroft, softly. In the TARDIS, the Doctor sat down with a thunk onto the beige leather chair, one hand on his forehead. That wasn't good. Mycroft Holmes NEVER made a mistake…and it wasn't a very good thing that he had.

"What?" breathed the Doctor. Suddenly he looked up to the sound of padded footsteps growing louder, as Amy's slippers, well, slipped into view. She plodded down, mouthing **_Who is it?_** He brushed her off with a wave of an impatient hand, returning his focus to the phone.

"He's...he's going to jump. It's Moriarty." Responded the formal voice and the Doctor heard a tremor in his voice. "Sherlock…he's going to die." The Doctor's eyes flew wide. "You have to help me."

"But I can't."

"I have all the Torchwood files in front of me, your friend…_Captain_ Jack informed me of your…remarkable blue box." Mycroft's voice held a whisper of hope that went right to the Doctor's hearts.

"Sorry."

"What?"

"I said, I'm sorry."

"You can't fix it can you?"

"No."

"Well…" On the other end of the line, in an impeccable dark brown leather chair, the eldest Holmes gave a forlorn smile. "Had to try, hm?"

"Yes. Again, sorry." Said the Doctor, rubbing his eyes. "Think of John, won't you?"

"I'll keep an eye out." He said. Then he slowly put the phone down and looked back at the grainy black and white CCTV TV screens. He looked at the blurred form of his brother…falling and falling. He saw on the second screen, the faint outline of John running and running. The bike, the bystanders. Then he flipped a switch, the screens went blank and he put his face in his hands.

**What had he done?**

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**Yeah...I kinda wanted to delve into Mycroft's feelings and OBVIOUSLY he knows all about Torchwood and the Doctor so this came about. I may not do a regular update as I am busy with Mr and Mrs Song and the audio script but...I'll see what I can do.**

**And as always if you have any prompts leave them in the comments I'll see what I can do!**


	10. Chapter 10

**Hey Guys...or Guy. I only got 1 review...bummer. Oh well, as much as I love reviews, I am still continuing. But if you do like it then please review, I do prompts or whatever and stuff...god I am rubbish at this.**

**Anyway, here is the next chapter and dedicated to FireIceRagingDetective I loved your review, it brought a smile to my day!**

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**The Doctors: Silver**

John stepped out cautiously of the grey stone apartment building. His face lined and eyes wrinkled and puffed up due to the lack of sleep. They stared out at the busy London street, the blue irises arching skyward to a noon day sun. He blinked a couple of times; adjusting to the light as he hadn't been out at all for a couple of days and so natural light shocked him. His hand rose and he lifted his cane to click on the concrete as he walked at a leisurely pace right of the building. He didn't have a place to go he just…went.

Today he had pulled on a plain white shirt, patterned in squares by straight, black lines. This, paired with a maroon cardigan and a jacket made for an unassuming outfit. He continued walking for a while, going through main streets to the park before a noise interrupted his thoughts. The cell phone rang and he fumbled to get it out of his pocket. Squinting, he brought the phone close to his eyes to look at the caller ID. He sighed. Lestrade.

Since the funeral, the silver detective had spoken to John once. He had come by the flat, when John was in the early stages of a deep and grief stricken depression. He had busted the door open with a flourish to find John sitting at his desk, his laptop open in front of him and his hands frozen in front of the keyboard.

"Look, you can't keep doing this, John!" He had said, flinging his arms around and walking over to his friend. It hurt him to see him so cut up about Sherlock- the man had been a fraud. A liar and a hoax and John was grieving like that man had been his brother. I mean, crikey, he'd had to do a lot of paperwork at the office just to get him of the hook. The man wasn't worth it.

Lestrade moved over towards the man, who looked dazed and finally looked up to face him. He stretched his fingers and turned to the detective, who was by now pulling up a chair. He took one look at the computer's screen and let out a sigh. The screen held two tabs, the first main one was "The Personal Blog of Dr. John. H. Watson" on a new post.

**16****th**** June: Untitled **

**He was my best friend and I'll always believe in him.**

"John." Said Lestrade. He moved closer to him, the chair scraping on the short carpet. John furrowed his brow, his head doing a double take as he turned to Lestrade, his hands unmoving.

"Hmm?" He said, dazed. _Good Lord, how long had he been like this? _Thought Lestrade. He budged closer, hands resting between his legs, elbows on knees as he bent closer, imploring to John.

"John, listen to me! What are you doing?" he started to say, trying very hard to keep his voice level. It wasn't working. This got John's attention. He turned fully round in his chair now.

"What do you mean?" Lestrade threw his arms out.

"This! I mean, he was a fraud, he played you John!"

"No…no he didn't." said John, frowning.

"John…he was a lair. And I'd be lying to if I said it didn't hurt. Blimey I've lost my job for this! And they put bloody Anderson in charge, and god knows he is a bloody idiot! But you can't let it stop you."

"Sherlock…" John gulped as he said it. "Sherlock…wasn't lying."

"Yes! Yes, he was. So, buck up!"

"No…no he wasn't, Greg." John's tone was icy now and Lestrade couldn't look him in the eye. He shuffled uncomfortably in his chair.

"John. You need help. Crikey, I need help. That man destroyed our lives. We're better off with out that machine!" He cried.

"Get out." Said John softly. So softly, Lestrade nearly missed it. But he didn't and his blood ran cold.

"W-What?"

"Get…Out." Said John, breathing slowly and heavily, as though trying to suppress it all. Lestrade stood up exasperated and stomped back to the stairs, pausing then and spinning on his heels.

"John. You are better than this. He isn't worth it. He was a fraud and he certainly wasn't your friend." Then he coughed, turned back and walked down the steps.

**No…that's you, Lestrade.**

That was the last time they had spoken, the finality of it was paramount so John was surprised to see that number appear on his cell. He huffed and gave in.

"Greg." He said, his back straightening, expecting the insults and idiotic comments. But what he got…surprised him.

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**Its not that long but its good enough...and I wonder what Lestrade will say? Any ideas? - H x**


	11. Chapter 11

**Hi Guys! I am SO SO sorry for being away for so long! But with holidays and family I have simply not had time. Also, to those waiting for Mr and Mrs Song, you are going to wait a bit longer. I have an idea but TOTAL writers block on this subject. But anyway.**

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**The Doctors: A Missing Part**

The slender fingers glided over thin metal frames, tracing the outside of the cool, circular glass lenses. They sat, in between his two hands as though they weighed much more than they did, resting on a bellowed page containing...a goodbye.

The Doctor was hunched over, in the Park, on a bench, contemplating. His eyes wide, dancing with tears, as he thought of that little girl waiting in a garden, totally unscrewed up, with a suitcase and a big coat. His eyes darted back to the glasses as a more recent memory came to mind.

_**"Doctor? What are these?" said Pond, as she threw on her beige jacket over her striped top with one hand, using the other to thrust an old pair of glasses at the Doctor who at that precise moment was on his swing with his goggles on and his jacket on the railings. Amy bent down, holding the glasses towards him as she clambered over a tube of Alysian Silvate. He looked over, popped of the goggles and held put an eager hand, grinning with familiarity.**_

_**"Oh, yes! I remember these!" He said, gleefully.**_

_**"What, are they yours?" Asked Amy, her brow furrowing. "You don't wear them."**_  
_**"Ah! But I used to, back when I was old." Said the Doctor as if it was the most common of him to say. He snapped the glasses open, hiding them up near his face, closing one eye to peek through the , frankly more dusty than he wished, lenses. Amy gave a small chuckle.**_  
_**"Back when you were old? What space gook are you talking now, space boy?" She giggled. He huffed.**_  
_**"Different face." He attempted to explain, giving a wide and dramatic flourish towards his face. "Different regeneration. First regeneration actually. Blimey, I was a right old bloke, couldn't see much for toffee...or jelly babies...Mmmm...jelly babies." He drew off, Amy nudged him playfully then snatched the glasses and standing up. **_  
_**"Alright then, grandad, come on! New York is a'waiting and Rory got a picnic together!" She added cheerfully, bounding up the steps.**_  
_**"Jammie Dodgers?" Cried the Doctor after her as he got of his chair.**_  
_**"Of course, Raggedy man!" He heard her shout back, he smiled and walked over to his jacket. Grabbing it and pulling it on, he slipped a hand in to the inside pocket. There was something inside. Grasping it, he pulled it out. Odd. A paperback novel lay in his hands. He skimmed the blurb and looked at the cover. Very nice.**_  
_**"Hurry up!" The Doctor chuckled, shrugged his shoulders and bounded up the stairs, beginning to read as he did so.**_

And that was it. That blasted book, he still didn't know how River had slipped it in his tweed jacket. River. Oh no. He had to get back to her.  
He stood up abruptly, unconsciously popping on the glasses and placing the afterword in his pocket before he ran...over the bridge...towards the blue box that had dirty marks and was looking more and more how the Doctor felt; tired. It was all becoming a doomed pattern. He reached the doors but something held him back. Turning abruptly on his heel he straightened his back, set his jaw and walked over to the stone slab that held concrete evidence that he would never see then again. His hearts pumped faster and his breath hitched as his gaze roamed the carved words. The finality of it was...to much. He hadn't got to say goodbye, not properly, not really. He knelt, a choked sob bleating out as he moved a trembling hand upwards very slowly to touch the cool stone. Fingers made contact and then he flinched, his teeth biting down on his bottom lip so hard it stung, but he didn't feel it. It was though he had been stung, as though an angry electric current had been zapped through his entire body. It was real. It was a real grave, real words, real meaning, real...really gone.  
The inside's of the Doctor's stomach knotted, a tight squeeze that made him want to keel over abduction curl up, shut everything out and everyone out so no one, NO ONE, would get hurt or damaged again...not even himself. But he lay, kneeling in the cut grass, hand outstretched with its fingers barely gracing the gravestone.  
"Hello?" The Doctor flinched at the sound. What was someone doing here? A burst of anger flew through him, he wanted to be alone, of all the times...all the times. He got to his feet, more quickly than he should have so his head span as he whipped it round toward the root of the voice, tears streaming all down his cheeks.  
It was a man, mid sixties, in a downtrodden, old looking beige suit, a black and widebrimmed hat with wisps of sandy hair that was graying at the edges. He looked at the Doctor. The Doctor looked back and the man spoke again with a New York accent.  
"So...your him." It wasn't a question, but a statement. A observation. The Doctor stood there silently with hunched shoulders, bound in his grief and not caring who the man was.  
"Mum and Dad would have been here." Continued the man, in a conversational tone, looking around him at the graves before his eyes lingered on the half shielded grave before the Doctor again. "Are here." He added quietly. The Doctor looked up from the ground, eyes resting on the man.  
"What?" He spoke softly, letting the word drop off his tongue, the lilt of the T lingering as he studied the old man. The man gave a hesitant smile before stepping forward and holding out a hand. The Doctor took it as a reflex, shaking it warily.  
"Antony Brian...Williams." he introduced himself. The Doctor's mind raced. Williams...Williams. But no...the Doctor let go quickly to use the hand to point at the man, fresh tears forming as he gaped like a fish.  
"Son of?" Antony smiled. And with a polite tip of his hat spoke 4 words.  
"Amy and Rory Williams." The Doctor's breath hitched, his multiple heartbeats thrumming inside his head.  
Amy and Rory...a son? They had had a son and here he was. Standing right before him. The Doctor bit his lip, a small smile stretching across his face. They must've been happy...truly happy. A son. Antony Brian...oh lord, Brian. The smile slipped off. What was he going to say, going to do? Amy and Rory, he had promised Brian to bring them back. He had promised. And he'd failed. But he couldn't think of that now.  
Antony was now rummaging in his pocket before taking out a sepia photograph. The Doctor took it wordlessly. His eyes roving as he held it like one sudden move meant it would fall away into a million pieces.

It was them. Rory and Amy looking very smart in a dress and suit adaptable for the time period. And between them, on the sofa, was a baby. The Doctor looked up at Antony then back down at the photo, wanting it to be seared onto his eyes as much as Pond had onto his hearts.

"Keep it." said Antony. The Doctor didn't know what to say, he wiped a tear from his eyes. He was frozen. Finally, he managed to choke out two words.

"Thank you."

"No problem, mate." said Antony, his smile folorn, etched with memories of his adopted parents. He turned and started down the hill, away from the graves before stopping and turning on his heel to say one other thing.

"My mum asked me to tell you." He said, slowly and with feeling. "She said...don't be alone, Doctor."

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**PLEASE PLEASE REVIEW, DEARIES!**

**Heather x**


	12. Chapter 12

**Literally a 15 minute jotting, just felt I had to write something. My script for a fan series is being a pain because I cannot think of a name for my 'monster' Oh well, what ya gonna do ;) **

**Some people have shown concerns about the timeline of this. Yeah, it is a mess. I write when it comes to me. BUT when it is done I will either do an index saying which comes when or a new Fan Fic of them in order. **

**Thoughts on this please ^^^**

**Heather x**

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**The Doctors: Thoughts**

You and me. Time and Space. Always us. In the end, eh? My TARDIS. My mad blue box with a madman to boot. Oh we have had some times so far, haven't we? Been everywhere, seen it all. That's what you wanted to say…in that little bubble on the outside of a bigger bubble in the junkyard of the vast and glorious universe. We saw it. Together. It's always us left, hm?

They went, sexy. My Ponds. My dear Amelia and Rory. And I knew it was coming, I couldn't take my own advice. If I hadn't read that book that last chapter…they could still be here. With me, with us. I never showed them Dexi or the Universal Market on Poosh. The Mountains of Felspoon or the Great Shard of Greline. I could have.

It's my entire fault. The Ponds. My splendid, splendid Ponds. I don't like being alone. I never did and yet I always seem to find myself here. Right back where I started. Alone. But at least I have you, hm? My box, my one last companion left.

River has gone. I don't know if I will see her again. She's dead. She's alive. And that hurts. Because I love her. I loved them all and they will always be in my hearts. They are seared there, old girl. Like all the others and they are not going away. That's the thing with pain. It demands to be felt. And I don't want to feel it. Not anymore. I can't take it anymore. Why do I have to take it? And it happened so quickly…and there was nothing I could do. Absolutley nothing. NOTHING. And that hurts. It all hurts. They were there and then gone. And they were our family, weren't they, old girl? And now they are gone and we are left. To float…to exist.

It _**hurts**_

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_**Review please (they make me happy)**_


	13. Chapter 13

**Hello, Readers! I hope you all are well, I am, thanks for asking. You nice people, you! Anyway, it was my first day of Year 11. All grown up now ;) NOT! **

**Anyway, I wanted to give you guys a breather from to much angst (there is some...and a lot coming so don't worry) and add some more Mycroft and also Wholock!**

**Gotta Love the Wholock! Anway, another shout out to my BRILLIANT reviewers, who keep me going and put a smile on my face :)**

**Heather x**

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**The Doctors: Mirage**

John strode through the halls of the swanky building, his face facing straight ahead and his loafers clattering against the polished wooden floorboards. He turned a corner sharply, reminding him of his past military days, this may have been possible as Dr Watson was a man on a mission. His face unreadable and set as he walked through a doorway in the lavish room.

Old men, haggard and weathered, sat in their brown leather chairs and ruffled suits around and array of equally heavily priced coffee tables. The room was large, and silent but for a lone sip of lips on the rim of a bone china cup coming from a chair, lodged in the far corner, it's occupant hidden from John's view as the chair was viewing a particularly hideous potted plant that people only bought to seem grand and to fill in a space. Class.

The war doctor limped across the room, his cane making a thudded tapping sound on the floor as he made his way over to another seat, perfectly positioned opposite the other. He sat down just in time for the chink of a cup on a saucer.

John, whose eyes had been down staring at his hands, glanced up at the passive face of Mr Mycroft Holmes. The blue eyes met the dark as they regarded each other, waiting for the first move in a silent and unspoken game of chess.

Then the ice broke.

"I saw him." Said John, staring intently at Mycroft so as to gage his reaction, looking for any signs of surprise or a look that would mean 'the game is up'.

"Ah." Spoke the eldest Homes, slowly.

"Sherlock…I saw him." Repeated John, on the off chance Mycroft had perhaps misunderstood.

"My age has not left me incapable of comprehension, Dr Watson." Replied the eldest Holmes, silkily, one lean hand straying to smooth down his gray blazer. John shifted in his seat.

"So?"

"So…it seems to me that you need to up your appointment number with your…how shall I put it?" He mused. "Shrink." He pronounced the word slowly and punched the syllables as though to punch a hole in John's stomach. John huffed. "Once a fortnight it stands at the moment, I believe?" He wasted no time pausing for an answer for he needed no answer. "And the charming Dr Alker…how is she?" He pondered, bringing the china cup once more to his lips.

"Yes. And fine." John replied curtly. Of course he bloody well knew, probably got his spies everywhere. Holmes' were always blinkin' show offs, the lot of them. Mycroft spoke again.

"Or perhaps an eye test?" He spoke with a polite tone, as though saying he was popping to the shops rather than questioning John's mentality.

"I know what I saw, Mycroft." Anger slipping into the war doctor's tone momentarily.

"John." This time Mycroft leant forwards, a flash of something dancing in his eyes. Pity? That seemed likely for the sour faced government official. But no. Compassion…hurt? "You have to let him go, John. Instantly John shook his head, a reflex now from Molly, Lestrade and Mrs Hudson's visit. Hell, even Anderson had come to gloat. Words lodged in John's throat.

No.

"I saw him, Mycroft." John pushed out, his words strained. "It was _definitely him_." Mycroft only smirked, leaning back.

"My brother was a great deal of things. A master of disguise and also, and I mean this in the worst possibly way, a clever man. Arrogant, callous and what sociopath but…clever. Do you really think that Sherlock Holmes would walk down the streets of London in a great big collared coat?" His last sentence dripping with sarcasm, he waved John's last cling to hope in front of his eyes like bait. He took it.

"He wasn't wearing the bloody COAT, Mycroft!" The word burst forth like a torrent. Mycroft had to believe, for his sake, for Sherlock's sake, damn it! He could search him, find him and bring him back so John could beat him senseless for what he did. The idiot. He rushed on furiously. His good leg tapping repeatedly on the floor as his anger raged war in him. "He wasn't even looking like himself…" He was cut off.

"My dear John…then how did you know it was him?" The smirk grew broader and John's anger grew tenfold.

"He'd dyed his hair! Ginger…stupid colour really. But I saw his face! His face, Mycroft!"

"You are seeing what you want to see, Dr Watson. Nothing more." John then stood up. No. He knew what he saw. It was him. It was! Shaking his head, he stormed (limped out angrily) out of the building, leaving Mycroft.

It took a few minutes for him to move again. He slowly placed his head in his hands, rubbing his eyes and grimacing to himself. John was seeing things. He knew it would affect him; it was affecting Mycroft to but…this badly. It was worrying. He had to do something. He had to make…a call.

Standing up silently, he took out his silver phone. Using a nimble finger, he scrolled through his apps to find his dial pad, reciting the number from memory. He didn't want it falling into the wrong hands. The dial tone ringed and ringed before it was picked up and Mycroft sat down again, relieved, waiting just a short moment before taking a deep breath.

"Doctor."

"Mycroft Holmes…where are we then?" The Doctor replied on the other end, his voice solemn enough for Mycroft to use his own powers of deduction to tell exactly where the Doctor was in his very lengthy and pained time stream.

"Sherlock is dead. John came to me…it was disturbing."

"Yes…I spoke to him a couple of weeks ago."

"Really?" said Mycroft, surprised but not showing it, his voice remaining ever deadpan.

"Yes. He's not doing well."

"He said he saw him."

"Oh?"

"But disguised gone ginger." Mycroft added, he heard a muffled groan on the other end.

"I've always wanted to be ginger." Said the disgruntled Doctor, more to himself than to Mycroft.

"I want you to check." This brought the Doctor's attention back.

"Check?" He echoed, hollowly.

"Yes. If he really is…gone."

"Don't do this, Mycroft. Don't open it up again. I have been there so many times and it is twice as painful when you lose them again." The warning rattled Mycroft and on the other end of the line a lone tear streaked down the Doctor's face as he thought of his Rose.

"Just do it, for John's sake."

"Fine." Agreed the Doctor, quietly, rubbing his brow.

"And if there is no news…then don't contact me."

"Messaged received." The dial tone blared as the eldest Holmes hung up, returning to a now lukewarm cup of tea.

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**And remember: Reviews make the world go round (and chapters come out faster)**


	14. Chapter 14

**Just 300 or so words. Had little free time, bigger chapter on the way. Thanks once again for the reviews! To think, this started with a one shot and now I have a plot!**

**Thanks again, Heather x**

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**The Doctors: Grave**

The TARDIS noise echoed and groaned as the box of iridescent blue materialized onto sharply cup grass, leaves of amber and coppers whirling around. Out stepped the Doctor, his eyes shut and his posture one of annoyance and ultimately some form of slight acceptance; his shoulders hunched, his hands close to his chest, their pale pink a stark contrast against the sky blue of his shirt. He rubbed his palms fervently together to quench the rising trepidation that was lying in the pit of his stomach. He took a lungful of icy air and opened his eyes to his to the London graveyard. It was wide, open and plain with a mixture of graves dotted; some black, some marble and some of a dull grey stone and the first thought that crossed the Doctor's mind was:

**_I shouldn't be here._**

He swallowed, bile rising in his throat as he fought to think about anything but where he was. He looked skywards, greeted by the pale grey of a Tuesday. Brilliant, the old girl had brought him to a Tuesday. He hated Tuesdays. He let out a shallow breath he didn't know he had been holding, the cloud of cold air dancing in front of his vision.

He hated graveyards to. Grave yards were the epitome of endings. And he hated endings. Lives lost, given, taken. Ponds dried up. He sniffed, trying to be strong. He didn't need reminding of that now. The Ponds were gone. End off. End. Stop. Done.

As if.

But no, that wasn't why he was here. He was here for John. He stepped forward, strolling through the rows of graves, his hands now buried deeply in his pockets.

When he had gotten the phone call from Mycroft he'd been surprised. More than that, he'd been perhaps…relieved. A distraction. And that in itself was a blessing. And now he felt horrible. Using his friends misery and confusion. But the Doctor couldn't help but think…was it? Confusion? If any man could keep death at bay it was Sherlock. No. The Doctor sucked in a breath and let it out, pausing, a hand grazing stone.

It was over by a tree. On its own. Black marble, lettering dignified and refined. Sherlock Holmes.

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**Review, chucks ;)**


	15. Chapter 15

**Hello, lovelies. I have 817 words for you today! Lucky you! I was so close to the Doctor meeting Sherly, it was going to go that way but then I decided to be like Moffat and make you wait...or not...or maybe? Also a bit of symbolism in this chapter, which I shall explain ath the end so tell me what you think!**

**Heather x**

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**The Doctors: Carnations**

The Doctor walked forwards towards the grave, his eyes fixed on the lettering. In front lay a wilted bunch of flowers. He wondered who had put them there. There was finality about it he didn't like. Just 'Sherlock Holmes' nothing left of the man, nothing to tell whether he was a great dancer, funny or the life and soul of the party. Of course Sherlock was none of those things, he was a grouch, sarcastic and all around clever clogs. The Doctor supposed in some way the grave was like Holmes. Reformed, smart. But he had been so much more.

The Doctor moved after the longest while- minutes or seconds, he didn't know but finally his legs moved again and he went down, crossing his legs and sitting in front of the grave underneath the old tree.

"So…Sherlock." He muttered, quietly. He felt he should elaborate but he didn't know what to say. But then it came to him. John. He was the reason he was here after all. "Mycroft phoned. John…er…hasn't been taking all of _this _very well. Neither am I. I lost the Ponds. So…I am alone I guess. It's probably best but I can't help but feel…well, never mind. You knew anyway, eh? Clever Sherly. I wonder if you got that deerstalker I sent. Couldn't resist really, but…back to why I am here." He took a shuddering breath and carried on. "He things he saw you, John did. Did he? Or am I just a mad old man who wants one of his friends back. John isn't coping well at all. We had a chat. I've only seen him once after all of…this."

He stopped, moving a hand to run through his hair. Then he heard an elated gasp. Reflexes kicked in and the Doctor was on his feet, hands outstretched in an awkward but undeniable boxer's position, drawn up near his chest. His eyes darted as he spun round to face the eminent enemy.

There stood a person in a long black coat, scarf and with short curls framing a face.

Mrs Hudson.

"Oh! Doctor!" She beamed, holding an already slightly wilted bunch of white and purple carnations. She followed the Doctor's eyes down at them and then blushed. "He always liked purple." She spoke fondly, not a stranger to heartache or loss. The Doctor remembered the first time he'd met Sherlock Holmes, helping to track down the former Mrs Hudson. Nasty business.

Finally, he looked back up to her face, with her warm eyes and attitude of a bumblebee. His mouth stretched wide as he threw his arms out towards the woman, striding over and enveloping her in a big hug.

"Mrs Hudson!" He cried, lifting her feet of off the grass with a squeal from her. It was the first real hug he had had since America and he relished it. It was so good to see the optimistic and flowery landlady. Putting her down, he squeezed her shoulders before letting go, noting the carnations were in a thoroughly squashed state. Oops. The Doctor's face ached; it had been ages since he had smiled last, a warm, wide smile that had not been out of remembrance or pity. An actual smile. Then he saw her eyes, and the smile dropped.

She stared back at him, her eyes full of worry. _She knew_. However, Mrs Hudson being who she was didn't comment, she just gave a slight, warm smile. He nodded ever so slightly, regarding the thin woman and silently thanked her. She got the message. Then, her gloved hand slipped into her dark black coat and drew out a crumple envelope. The Doctor looked at it, then back to Mrs Hudson at a loss. What had happened? She thrust it forwards towards him and he saw his name written in fine ink. The Doctor took it, noticing the weight and the elegant style of handwriting.

_To, the Doctor_

"He just said, to give this to you…today." She whispered. He just stared at the letter. Mrs Hudson moved past him silently, going behind him so as to get a full view of the grave. She gave a small prayer and a quick hello to Sherlock's grave. Then she bent down, took the dead flowers and replaced them with the bunch she had brought. Then she started back up the slight hilled path. When she reached the top, she turned ever so slightly and looked back at the Doctor whose eyes were still fixed on the envelope. He looked up, feeling her gaze on him.

"Come for tea sometime, love." She said, the edge of her lips tugging upwards. "I've just changed to Typhoo." He smiled, and she disappeared from sight. And he walked slowly back to Sherlock's grave. He sat back down, turned over the letter and saw along the flaps was written more words in the cursive script.

_From Sherlock Holmes_

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**_So, what did you think is in the letter? Be sure to review! And if anyone wants to PM feel free to!_**

**_Symbolism:_**** It was the Carnations! Hence the title. Purple Carnation: impulsive, unpredictable, whimsical, changeable, unreliability, antipathy. Which is pretty much Sherlock in a Carnation: innocence, pure love, sweetness, lovely, faithfulness, remembrance, luck. I chose white as well for Mrs Hudson's feeling towards him, she views him as a son I think. But...the flowers got squashed...hmmmmmmmm. ;)**

**REVIEW PLEASE LOVELIES!**

**PS: Does anyone want me to create a new story of these in the right order? I have another one shot that doesn't follow this coming up so...anyway.**

**Review or whatever. xxxx**


	16. Chapter 16

**Hi! So...who wanted to find out what was in the letter? Was it a confession of his life? Or not...anyway, here it is!**

**I may not update as I have to finish of my Doctor Who episode script (does anyone know how to freeze soul-sucking monsters?)**

**Heather xxx**

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The letter was short, and to the point. Resting his chin on a hand, the Doctor read.

_Dear Doctor._

_I've asked Molly to pass this onto Mrs Hudson. You told me to do it and said I would know the moment when and so if I am correct, this is the aforementioned moment. I texted Moriarty and have deduced that the game will end with, for all intents and purposes, my death._

_I am not a fraud. I know you know that already but still, my feelings which I have tried to supress tell me it is good to get it out once again. My legacy will remain intact a sliver._

_Look after John, and Mrs Hudson. They have been good for me._

_Good bye, Doctor._

_Your associate,_

_Sherlock Holmes_

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**Sorry it is short...see you soon I hope!**

**Review? Please?**


	17. Chapter 17

**OVER 30 REVIEWS! Oh My Gosh! I love all you guys, all my followers and my guest reviewers...I want to thank my mum and my dad for never asking me what the hell I was writing in my tatty notebook, my brother's for keeping (mostly) the hell out of my room. Oh! This is brilliant! In 16 chapters...more than 2 each chapter.**

**Ok, when you put it like that, it sounds sucky. Also, can I please ask a favour, see if we can get to 40? I mean, I have 20 followers...if you could ALL write a Review! Oh my gosh, you would get chapter after chapter!**

**SO MORE REVIEWS PLEASE! :)**

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**The Doctors: Half Cold Cup of Tea**

The Doctor sat. Wiping his eyes in a tried manner before slowly bringing it back into his vision. Odd. It was wet, salt tears gripping his skin. He wiped the rest away before sniffing back more and standing up. He put the letter carefully and perfectly back into the envelope and into the inside pocket, careful not to crease it against the sonic screwdriver.

He knew what he had to do. He supposed he had always known. But he'd gotten and explanation, or rather what Sherlock probably thought constituted as one, and now it was time to deliver one. He jogged up the slight hill, his mind made up. Gripping the TARDIS doors, he swung them shut behind him before walking quickly to the console, starting it up and setting coordinates.

The garden was stationary, quiet, reserved and devoid of sound. A large patio extended from the back of the house and neat rows of flowers in pinks, blues and yellows were arrayed in earthy soil. The back door opened and out stepped Brian Williams.  
He didn't know why he was there. No one was coming back, he thought sadly, his grip tightening around a slightly worn watering can. He moved over and started to pour the water onto the flowers, taking a deep sigh as he did so. He didn't really know what to do with the house. It was theirs but they were gone. He'd have to phone the hospital as well. Tell them his son wasn't coming back. He couldn't explain why because of obvious reasons but he also couldn't understand it as well.  
Stuck. That was the word Rory had written. What did that mean? Stuck. What of the Doctor? The strange man with a willing smile and a, well, an almost haunted look in his eyes. Brian had seen enough to know the effects of war in his time. But still. Stuck. There was finality to it; a bitter taste seated in his mouth.  
Suddenly, a chill wind blew. Brian looked up and instantly and unconsciously the watering can slipped between his fingers, clattering onto the ground below him as time froze. A box; a box of the bluest blue in the history of pretty much everything, had dematerialized from a graveyard and materialized in the garden. Brain stared at it. Minutes or hours passed, he didn't know as he stood stock still, waiting for movement.

Inside, the Doctor stood, leaning against the console with glassy eyes focusing on nothing buy empty space, his mind occupied by grief and whether he had actually gone mad this time. He didn't want to do it. How was he supposed to go out there...face Brian. He trusted the Doctor. He scoffed. They did that, and they shouldn't. No one ever should. His face was wet with tears again, he'd stopped paying attention of when they fell. His mind focused on the Ponds. On doing what was right. Was it right? Yes, of course it was. He couldn't back out now. He fished out the photograph from inside his jacket, giving a small, grief stricken smile at it. They had been happy. Happy at least. He had to do this. Had to tell him.  
And with that, the Doctor ruefully fixed his bow tie, stuck by a sickening and bitter wave of nostalgia. Patted down the tweed, and walked out the doors.

There stood Brian, his shoulders back and his face calm as he viewed the Doctor. This made the Doctor more nervous as he fidgeted and played with the sonic screwdriver he had taken out of his pocket. The green light buzzed feebly.

"Brian." He said this with the quietest of voices. Looking to his boots, his right hand then gestured into the house. He thought that would be better, if he sat down. "Let's go inside."

"Alright." Brian said. It struck the Doctor as odd. No tremble was evident in the old man's voice, no quiver of emotion. How? Perhaps it was denial…yes, shock perhaps, like he had been with Donna. But of course, he had seen Donna's…absence before it had come. Had Brian? Did he always now that _this _was going to happen? That his son and daughter in law would not come home?

Brian went in first, the Doctor traipsing behind. Brian popped on the kettle, taking out two yellow mugs from the cupboard, putting in two tea bags and then going over to fetch the milk whilst the kettle continued boiling. After teas were made, in which the Doctor hadn't moved, just leant against the counter awkwardly- Brian gestured to the sofa. Fresh waves of memories spilled forth in the Doctor's mind. There was the Wii, the bunch of flowers he had given the Ponds for their anniversary safe in a delicate vase. Brian cleared his throat and sipped his cuppa, bringing the Doctor back to reality. He began.

"Brian…" He started timidly. But the stoic elder put a hand up, stopping the Doctor in his tracks. Then he put the hand down and his eyes were on the brink of tears, staying in only by the sheer force of will on Brian's part.

"I know." He said, softly but firmly. The Doctor, who had taken the temporary silence to take a sip of his tea, choked. Spluttering, he said,

"Yo-You _know?_" He placed the tea down, hands instinctively returning to his lap. Brian looked at him with feigned cold indifference, but the Doctor saw the cup trembling in Brian's hand.

"Antony." Said the man simply. The Doctor closed his eyes with a soft understanding. Of course. Antony Brian Williams. Rory, you genius.

"I met him to. Straight after they went."

"Doctor…" began Brian, hesitantly. The Doctor straightened his back, ready for the accusations. "Just tell me one thing. What exactly happened." The Doctor let out a hollow breath. He pushed back his brown quiff and lent back against the sofa, ready to tell his tale.

"New York. There were Weeping Angels, creatures that can feed of time energy- they get it by sucking you back through time." He explained, his hand tapping against his knee repeatedly with concentration. " Rory was taken first. We saw him in a hotel room and he…he died, Brian. As an old man and without Amy. They chose to create a paradox. A paradox is when-"

"I know what one is, after the Cube incident, Rory lent me his book. I wanted to be prepared." Brian stated firmly. The Doctor gave a short chuckle. Reliable Brian. Brian looked at him and nodded his head, urging the Doctor to carry on.

"They died, again for Rory, jumped off a building before I could do anything. I couldn't _do __**anything.**_" The Doctor began to break down, tears spilling as he rested a hand to his forehead, gulping back sobs as he fought to continue. Brian put a hand on his knee and whispered.

"Go on, Doctor." The Doctor looked over at him and saw a lone tear sliding down Brian's cheek as well.

"Well, it worked. The paradox worked and we all pinged back. But…." The sobs came thick and fast now and he gulped repeatedly. "But there…there was a-a survivor. An Angel. It took Rory first. So quickly and there was nothing I could do. **_AGAIN!_**" He said, the last word wrenching from his tear strewn lips as they fell and fell and fell again. Brian was still silent. "And then Amy…she followed. Chose to be with Rory and went by the same angel."

"Doctor!" cried Brian, stirring. The Doctor looked at him, his face awash with pure agony. Brian gripped the Doctor's shoulders and the Doctor stared intently at Brian, his face now steadily being covered in bitter tears. "Doctor…did you do all you could?"

"Yes….yes." He gasped, the realization new to him as well. There was nothing he could have done. Was that worse? He was always ready. Always had a plan and then this time he failed. The Doctor. Failed. And worse, his friends. The Ponds.

"Then that's ok." Brian breathed softly. The Doctor turned sharply, his eyes wide. Brian forgave him? " You did all you could. And my Rory sent me a letter. He was fine. They both were, they were happy." He smiled. "I still have Antony. And as I said earlier, Doctor…" He said, standing and picking up the cold half-drunk teas, before padding to the kitchen. "Who else has a chance at all they've seen?" The Doctor smiled sadly, sensing his time with Brian Williams was coming to an end. He stepped out, near the patio doors but Brian called back, sticking his head out to be visible.

"Doctor?"

"Brian?"

"Rory's letter…there was a PS…it was for you. Just 4 words." The Doctor turned fully, hands in his pockets.

"What were they?"

"Don't be alone, Doctor." The Doctor didn't reply. He mulled the words over in his head. Then he saluted the man, walked back to the TARDIS and the blue box gave a sad whirr as it left the Ponds' house for the final time.

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**So what do we think? **

**Also in other news...I finished my fan series script and sent that off (I think they are asking me back for series 2 - eeeek!)**

**Heather xx**


	18. Chapter 18

**Here we are! On fresh and tear-jerking chapter (I hope ;D) Once again a huge thank you to those continuing to read, a comment perchance on this...18th chapter! Blimey! Imagine when I get to 20! I have more and more ideas for this fic and it's you guys that keep me going!**

**Luna (Guest) : I hope the fan series goes well as well, I'll keep that luck with me ;)**

**Castielle (Guest) : Ha Ha, I am glad! And here you are...what happens next :) And I love your title, Consulting Madwoman!**

**Also, a big shout of to FireIceRagingDetective! Your reviews are heartwarming and I thank you from the bottom of my heart for reviewing each and every week. To everyone else, please check out her story 'Two Geniuses in 221b' It's fab!**

**Anyway, look at me rambling! On with the...chapter :/**

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**The Doctors: Haphazard**

John. He stood in the centre of the infamous 221B Baker Street. The familiar surroundings sent a shiver up his spine, like Sherlock was standing there, ghostly white and pale as he was in Johns nightmares. The old science equipment had been boxed up best it could by Mrs Hudson, it littered the room, half in and half out with petri dishes lying next to the cardboard boxes after being thrown from them. The wallpaper had started to peel, the odd job from the man living opposite had given a go was failing and not an impact of a bullet to nail the monochrome patterned wallpaper to the walls. The organs were still left, Mrs Hudson a few days prior had tried to tidy up a bit but hadn't the stomach for it. So they lay in haphazard jars in the fridge and from where he stood, John could see the faint shadow of a container in the microwave.  
In short, a mess.  
Nothing changes then. Mind you, it wouldn't. For the old soldier had not stepped in, the bubbling landlady left it alone and the cold, calculating sociopath was not there. Never would be again.  
And that...well, that sucked. John moved hesitantly around the space, feeling more and more like a trespasser. Some one who shouldn't be there at all. His fingers brushed the wooden desk on which lay a organized chaos of papers, all marked with elegant and stooping handwriting. His fingertips came away from the desktop, leaving a clean trail midst a layer of fine dust.  
He was so sure. Sure that it was him. He'd been walking down the street, fresh from the unexpected phone call from Lestrade. Then a man had barged past, a tall man, ramming into his shoulder. John had noted the scruffy,cheap jeans, ratty backpack and baseball cap under which was a curly mop of ginger curls. John shouted at the man, his temper snapping, and the man had turned...just for a second. And it was him.  
It was. Same eyes, face, bloody cheekbones. And then he'd run. And John tried to keep up before being nearly knocked over by a cab. He'd laid there. Just for a second. Then he'd gotten up but it still plagued him. Alive. The git.  
Why? That's what John couldn't fathom. Why did he need to fake his death and why couldn't Sherlock tell him? They were best friends, or at least that's how John felt. Had Sherlock? Had he felt anything at all? Or was John a blunt instrument, an experiment, a tool? The thought sent his stomach churning.  
He walked back and sat down on his chair, not bothering to wipe away any sort of muck or dust. Placing his cane down to rest against the chair's arm, he then rubbed his brow with the tips of fingers, thinking hard.

If Sherlock where to come anywhere...he'd come here, surely? The thought popped in and out. No, silly. He'd never come back here. But why? And if he did slip up...which was a slim chance but still that. A chance. Shouldn't John be here...see if he could see him. To prove he wasn't loosing it? Maybe he should talk to Mycroft again, make him see sense. Or his therapist. He needed a cuppa. He scanned the room, still pondering one thought.

He'd missed the flat...should he?

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**Short and sweet, unfortunately due to homework they may become shorter. It sucks but you'll get faster updates.**

**Review if you like it...if not then I'll take it you hate it...and that sucks ;)**

**Heather x**


	19. Chapter 19

**Hi Guys! Once again thank you for the reviews! Sorry for the delay!**

**Heather x**

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**The Doctors: Healing a Heart**

He stirred his tea, his mind not focusing on the lazy circles he was creating in the soothing, hot liquid. He was too deep in thought. Lifting off of the counter, he began to make his way over to the chair, balancing the mug in one hand as his bad leg relied on the cane. He hissed as the pain shot through it. He set down the mug with a muted thud onto a stack of papers that were strewn on top of the coffee table.

He sat back, licking his lips slowly, lost in the whirlwind of his thoughts, weighing up the pros and cons. He could stop paying for the other apartment. The flat was cheap but bare and cold and impractical; isolated and away from the centre of London. Away from finding him. Also, if he had to look on those drab walls one more time then he would go out of his mind.

Sighing, he picked up the tea and brought it to his lips. Sherlock…why did he have to fake his death? John was adamant he was alive. He had to be. He had seen him, hadn't he? Or maybe Mycroft was right. The smug man was usually right, hence the haughty expression that never cease to make an experience. He sighed against the rim of the cup and brought it back down. How could he? What if Mycroft knew? Knew Sherlock was alive and didn't tell him? But why wouldn't he tell him? Did Sherlock not want him in his life? If so, that was a bloody horrible way to do it? Did he prefer being Mr Machine? Not feeling…no one. No friendship? Or was John viewed as a momentary distraction from the endless murder cases and the great deducing?

No.

No, they were friends and whatever stupid reason he had, he was going to find out. And he was going to tell him everything. John closed his eyes slowly, blinking as they closed, remembering.

It had been the day he had finally let the words slip through his mouth. Sherlock is dead. It had been his 2nd since the incident. The first had just been him sat in the chair, his chin resting on one hand, the other hand clutching his cane as though it was a lifeline after _it. _He had merely sat there. In silence, staring out at the rain. It had always seemed to rain. His therapist had attempted to make John speak but had failed. Instead, she sat watching his reactions as she spoke about it. Read from the newspapers about the suicide of the fake genius. He had flinched when she had said fake.

On the second, that day. He had finally spoken. He had gazed blankly at his therapist, his breathing under control and his hand once again being a support for his head as the rain poured down. She spoke.

"There's stuff that you wanted to say ..." She said, trailing off. John opened his mouth in an attempt to reply but the words got stuck half way there, and he closed his mouth again. "... but didn't say it."  
John's voice broke as he said yes.  
"Say it now." John's eyes leaked as he spoke tearfully, using a hand to drive the point in. "No." He shook his head, gulping back great gasps as he forced out words. "Sorry. I can't."

What had he wanted to say?

He wanted to say how he regretted he didn't stand up for Sherlock more. All the times he was called a freak by Donovan or weird by Anderson. All the stupid judgements made by the clueless press who couldn't really give a damn about Sherlock. The times he, John, had insulted him. Like the bloody solar system. He made an innocent comment in front of un-innocent people and Sally, Greg and Lestrade had picked it up and flung it in Sherlock's face. And John had stayed quiet. All John had ever heard anyone ever say to Sherlock for the most part has been hurtful. And Sherlock had committed suicide because John had turned away, had left him. John hadn't stood up for Sherlock, protected him. DAMN IT. That was what friends were for! That was what they were supposed to do. Not turn his back on him. All the times he didn't stand up for him. Was that why? Of course the brilliant Sherlock would never truly kill himself- there was probably a voice saying his genius would be a huge loss to the world. So he had cut John off.

The times where John would be in the depths of his pain over Sherlock, wondering if the other man knew how much he cared about him at all, he'd think of this moment and hope he'd noticed. Hoped Sherlock had known, in the moments before he fell and had supposedly died. But if he had…then he wouldn't.

John came to a conclusion: Sherlock faked his death to get away from him.

And that hurt so badly.

John sipped the last of his tea then put the mug down. His mind working furiously as John realized. He could still tell him. All of it. All of that. He could tell him. He just had to find him. He had to stay.

He got up as soon as the front door of 221b closed with a slam, indicating Mrs Hudson's arrival. She had been over at Sherlock's grave. Fake grave, he had to remind himself. Fake grave. She'd taken some carnations.

He made his way down, a spark of determination in his heart. Reaching the bottom of the stairs, he saw the landlady taking off her coat.

"Mrs Hudson." She jumped, her hands moving not to her heart but up near her head. Sherlock's words came ringing in John's head. _I insured it._ Oh, poor Mrs Hudson. John felt protective of the woman, on her lonesome and wrapped her in a small hug, clutching to her wiry frame. He let go and stepped back, clearing his throat.

"I want the flat back." She smiled instantly, clasping her hands together.

"Oh! That's wonderful, John. I'll lower the rent so you can have it. It's worth less when that walls don't get shot every 24 hours." She laughed, but then the smile slipped and she looked at John worried. "Are you sure?" John regarded telling her about Sherlock. But smiling he said he was sure.

And he took the key. Walking up the stairs, he opened the door on his flat, surveying it again. He smiled forlornly at the memories but then his thoughts were interrupted as he say the chair he had been sitting in.

And the cane leaning against it.

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**There will still be angsty moments but now they are going to start to heal. And don't worry! I will have the two Doctor's reuniting soon. **

**As always, anything you want adding or a chapter blah blah blah, I will do, I am at your service ;)**


	20. Chapter 20

**Hello all! Wow...sorry for the lateness but I have been swamped with homework which sucks! Still, needs must! **

**Anyway, this is dedicated to GoldenDearie as it is because of GoldenDearie that I woke up to a further nine reviews! But a thank you to all my reviewers as always.**

**GoldenDearie: Molly may feature in a chapter later but perhaps only as a flashback. In my mind since Sherlock's 'death' she has been reserved. But I'll see what I can do ;)**

**MIDNIGHT: Oh...erm...people want to slap me? Is that a good thing or not?**

**AmyPond11: Thank you! The feels in thsi chapter were not supposed to be angst...I wanted to move it along a bit. :)**

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**The Doctors: Cranberry**

Mrs Hudson was a private lady. Her own flat, underneath those she rented out to her tenants, was not overly decorated. A few plush arm chairs to sit in with a cup of tea in the evening, floral wallpaper and a small yet spotless kitchen. Yes, the bare necessities were perfectly fine for Mrs Hudson. She had no need for doilies or flowers that would soon die. Indeed, the only flowers that ever graced the doorstep of that particular building were those she had delivered every week on a Saturday, for Sherlock's grave. Purple and white carnations, always. She had a soft spot for them now, made sure the grave was neat and tidy. She didn't like messes. And yet here she found herself in the middle one.

John had moved back in less than a week ago, last Saturday when Mrs Hudson had last visited the grave of the detective. She hadn't been totally surprised to see the Doctor sat in front of the grave. It had been an odd event that. Of course, it was always odd when Sherlock and the Doctor were involved so she didn't pry. She kept herself to herself apart from the times her life had been threatened. To be honest, she hadn't exactly known how Sherlock knew. How he knew she would see the Doctor. She had had the envelope in her coat pocket for months, since Sherlock had given it to her. Mind you, that had been odd to.

_Mrs Hudson closed the door with a thud, her face frowning at yet another run in with the MARRIED man next door. Honestly, she wouldn't bother if the girl in there didn't make such a lovely carrot cake. It had been drizzling slightly, a flurry of small droplets clung to her ringlets as she had left an umbrella. Taking her coat off to reveal a violet dress, she bustled over to her kitchen and popped her little kettle on the gas, patiently waiting for a shrill whistle._

_Then in came Sherlock. All purpose, no manners, he swooped in. He meticulously wiped his boots on the mat. The door reverberated as it slammed back, making Mrs Hudson jump._

_"Mrs Hudson!" He cried, in his deep, baritone voice. He then, in one fluid and graceful movement, sat down in the chair at the little table, crossing his legs and placed his head on the steeple of his slender hands that rested on the wood. He sat there, obviously in one of his silent and peculiar moods as Mrs Hudson managed the reign her heat in back from her mouth. She finally brought herself together and jumped again as the kettle whistled. Looking over at the genius, she got out two cups._

_"Would you like a cuppa, Sherlock?" she asked in a soft tone, not sure how Sherlock would react. He came out of his trance and stared at her. Grunting the affirmative, he sat back in his chair again and Mrs Hudson sorted out the teas._

_"Oh, and I've got a lovely sponge cake if you want a slice. It's very nice, homemade jam I got from my sisters." She babbled on. "Oh and you'll be wanting your skull back then? Is that why you came down here Sherlock? I don't know why you keep it. It's a horrible thing. But at least its clean now, you never did wash all the dirt off."_

_"Mrs Hudson, be quiet." He said, suddenly._

_But she kept talking._

_"And do you want Earl Grey? I know you usually do but I bought these lovely fruit tea- some nice cranberry that ought to sooth you, they were buy one get a packet half price over at Asda."_

_"MRS HUDSON!" Sherlock shouted abruptly, She snapped her mouth shut and raised two arms in surrender. Honestly, that man. He jumped up, lifting the two cups of tea from the kitchen side and placing them down on the small table next to the two soft chairs. Mrs Hudson sat down, the chair scraping against the vinyl floor. She raised her cup to her lips and drank her own fruit tea, looking expectantly at his Earl Grey. But he remained silent, pondering. Then up he was, like a shot._

_"If you'll forgive me, Mrs Hudson, but I'll pass on the tea. But I want you to do something for me." And out came a letter as Mrs Hudson looked at him shocked. He handed it to her, her frail hands taking the letter. Sherlock carried on. "The Doctor said I needed to write it, don't know what it's for or why. He just told me what to put." Mrs Hudson looked up from the letter sharply. The Doctor? Here? Odd. She didn't ask what was in the letter; it had not crossed her mind. But Sherlock continued his tirade with a fanciful speed. "Still, he told me to give it to you to give to him the next time you see him and you have white and purple carnations. Take from that what you will." He smiled his fake smile and kissed a befuddled Mrs Hudson on the cheek and bid her goodnight, striding out of the flat._

_She sat silently for a few moments, turning the letter over and over in her hands. Odd. Still she thought nothing of it, all the goings on in this place. She stood up, wincing. "Oh, my hip is going again." She needed more soothers, she thought. Busying over she took Sherlock's discarded cup of tea. A waste. Silly man._

Mrs Hudson kept her grief inside her, as was right. Always had. After her husband and many other people she did not dwell on, it had become...a reflex. Always kept it in. Never shed a tear for him. But she still felt the tell-tale pit in her stomach.

And now there was all this funny business with John. It was nice to have him around again, yes. But she kept her peace, made him tea and broke out the mixing bowl and whisk.

_But she was not his housekeeper._

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**So, you guys know the drill. Review if you like it and keep your mouth shtum if you don't ;) LOL just kidding- I await all comments.**

**Heather x**


	21. Chapter 21

**Hello My Sweeties! I am sorry for the wait but I am back. I have also returned to Mr and Mrs Song so if anyone has not checked that out feel free to check it out and review (shameless self advertising)**

**Heather x**

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**The Doctors: Loose Ties**

The TARDIS thrummed as it left the garden. It all seemed rather poetic: starting in a garden and then ending in one.

The Doctor walked over, smiling. They had been happy. And now he had to let them go. But he was never going to forget, he was never going to get over Amelia Pond and Rory Williams, simply because, well, they were perfect…perfect until the very end. Seared on his hearts, he had said it that many times. And when you thought about it, he could never say no to Amy. In the graveyard, in…everything and anything. And she had been happy. He knew she would have been happier. But he still fought, selfish till the bitter end. That was what he was. He reasoned with her, justified himself to her, because she knew. She mattered that much. Amy knew always what was right, from the very beginning. Most of all, she knew the Doctor. The best of friends. Perfect.

She had spent 10 years with the Doctor. He had stretched out their time together over the course of decades, never wanting to let go. The Ponds were the ones that never left, the ones he was always running to. But the race had finished, and it was time to go home.

Home.

He looked up, the gold and copper interior blazing back at him. He felt uneasy, odd, like there was something missing. There was something missing. Two something's. Two someone's. He pulled a lever, stabilizing the TARDIS in deep space. He thudded down the couple of stairs before throwing open the doors, knowing the TARDIS would keep his eyeballs firmly intact in their sockets. He looked out.

What could he do now? Where could he go?

He needed someone…he needed….River.

River. His jaw clenched slightly in shame. She had lost her parents and all he had done was cry and feel sorry for himself. The blithering idiot. All he wanted was to make her feel safe, take her away from danger. Look at him. All talk. Instead she had died for him, lost her parents because of him, been forced through a number of paradoxes, a number of alternate realities and brainwashed. How could she love him? The Woman who killed the Doctor…The Woman who married the Doctor. Ha. No, he had not done right by River. She was his equal; clever, Sassy River, with her curly space hair and her…jodhpurs.

He stared out at the vast expanse of space. All the light, melding together, all that beauty in a terrible vastness, a terrible emptiness.

River. He'd go see her. Before the end.

Oh, he hated endings.

Because he never got to them. Everything else ended but not him. 1000 years old en-counting. Everything withers, dies, decays and he lives on. Oh, he regenerates but he still is there, in his new form. He dies, but he lives. On and On. Lonely always. Where was he supposed to go next?

John.

Oh yes, thought the Doctor as it struck him. John.

The TARDIS shut the doors slowly, enough time for the Doctor to stick his head back in. He turned his body by his heels, surveying the room. It was hard to look at to be honest. Walking back up, he placed a hand on the Matrix and whispered.

"You know where." Softly, the matrix began to move, shifting up and down and up and down as the TARDIS set in motion. The Doctor's head turned to the console as a lever arched downwards, the floor jerking, bringing an effortless smile back to the Doctor's face as the machine hummed. It threw him as it careered a time and a place he doesn't know. All he knows is who will be there. He gets up and pats the console, fondly. Him and his box again.

He walked over, wobbling as the box did before collapsing onto his chair, waiting to land.

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**Next Chapter, 2 Words: RAIN GODS**

**What'd'ya think?**

**Oh, and PS: OVER 50 REVIEWS THANK YOU ALL!**


	22. Chapter 22

**Ok, now I had to do this. I mean come on. Ever since the minisode came out I have been dying to write it up fully. So I worked it into this...it will be multi chapter and I will post it as such on its own as well as a part of ****_One Shots in Time and Space _****and ****_The Doctors._**

**As Ever: Review!**

**Heather x**

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**Rain Gods: Part 1**

The signal from the console rang out, signalling that the TARDIS had landed. The Doctor looked to from where he had been sitting. He ran up to the console, darting to look at the screen. Yes, the date and time were correct- The Felix Galaxy, Planet Delta, on a nice summer day. The TARDIS was parked outside the Felician Archives, a place River had mentioned she had an internship at.

He powered down the screen, and looked at himself in the reflective black screen. It was wrong.  
He knew what he wanted to do. Flinging his arms out, he darted about away from th console to the corridors. First right, second left. He potted over to the wardrobe. Throwing off the tweed he stared at it for a moment in his hands. It was time; he couldn't hold on to the past, he had to embrace it. He couldn't wear it any longer- it was too painful. And with that thought in his mind, he threw the jacket over one of the many mirrors in the revamped wardrobe.

It's winding racks from the long gone coral theme had been replaced with mis-matched copper and crystalline doors with circular gallifreyan text telling the doctor what lay beneath. He opened a hatched and pulled out a grey waistcoat. Yes, this would do. He pulled it on and buttoned it before noticing a slight bulge in the small pocket. Opening it, he drew out a small watch. Handy. He fixed it onto the waistcoat and clipped his wristwatch off. He then walked around the maze of cupboards, doors and rails to find a purple tweed coat which he liked immensely.  
Yes. It was different. Different was good.

Was it? He looked over at the brown jacket on top of the mirror and walked over to place it in his hands. The material was worn now, just like him. No, he couldn't. He placed the purple on the mirror. Could he. He switched them. Looking between both, he sighed.

He had to. Step 1: Change. Change and then maybe it'll stop hurting. Anyway, he had to look nice for River. His smile broke out against his will. River would make it better, River always made it better.

He put on the purple tweed and dusted down his shoulders before tugging down the lapels. He walked with purpose to another mirror, leaving the other jacket crumpled on the floor and looked at himself.

He remembered his first thoughts, the first day of his regeneration, the first day with Amelia:

_"Let's see what we have then." He said before stepping in front and staring at his reflection. "Wow!" he exclaimed. It was all new. Not even a shred of the lanky nerd type he had been before. Shame, that regeneration had been good at running. He'd have to test this one later. But the chin! He stroked it, it was so odd. But not that big. Bigger than he had had but surely not that big!_

_"Blimey! The hair!" He cried, hands shooting up. Damn it, not even close to ginger. The hair was big too. Brown...again and floppy. He needed to brush it...and get rid of all his hair gel. But what are you gonna do? He was funny. He knew that. Funny...with a massive chin. He could work with that. He'd worked with less. He checked all over his body. He was glad he had all functional and ordinary body parts and limbs. A friend of his that had been on Gallifrey one regeneration and got 3 arms. Really useful for piano playing but the Doctor didn't want to play piano. Not now anyway._

_The mirror had a crack in the centre, so it was difficult to see the face. Wide nose, and deep set eyes and a curved mouth and- "My Eyebrows!" His hands flew to his new face, he rubbed around a bit before locating the small eyebrows and breathing a sigh of relief. He had eyebrows...that was good. That was cool._

Now he looked at himself again, at the end of that era. Because it was an era. Oh, it was. He looked at himself; donned in a new waistcoat, jacket and watch. It was new. It was different. Not a shred of old professor, more…Victorian gentleman. He reached a hand up to slick back his brown mop. He looked at his face, the chin now seemed normal to him, as though over time his face had sort of…gotten used to it. Was that a thing? He looked at his clothes. Yes. Good. Fine.

Different.

He turned and spotted the old jacket on the floor. He picked it up and drew out his sonic to place it in his pocket before strolling over and opening a cupboard, taking out a coat hanger and hanging the jacket on with the utmost care before putting it into the cupboard. Then he turned and walked away, not glancing back.

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**Ta Da! At this point the Doctor is really trying to move on. And for him the only one to do that is River. He needs to let go and have a little fun but at the same time is in odds with himself; should he go on? Amy and Rory meant so much to him and so the parallel is nice.**


	23. Chapter 23

**Hi Guys! Thought I would lay off the angst a bit.**

**Please review...I got no reviews for the last chapter which was very disappointing.**

**:(**

**Heather x**

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River heard the distant gong of the cloister bell and smiled to herself. Her eyes were bright and expectant as she sat up of the lounger she was laying on and put her book down. It was boring her anyway. She swung her long legs over and off the seat, got up and went to look for the famed blue box and her husband, pondering which one she'll get this time and hoping it would be where he knew who she was. That was always hard; expecting and then being disappointed. Imagine what that does to a girl.

Inside the TARDIS, the Doctor was finishing landing before walking along the glass floor to the screen, where his face reflected in it. He looked at himself, and did final checks; slicking his hair back, checking his bow tie was proper, correct and most importantly, cool. Pleased with himself he picked up an umbrella from the stand in the corner, pocketed it whilst he had a chance to, as it rained in the 1960s and trotted on out to find River.

He turned back on himself to close the door and then turned back around to see River Song, with her hands on her hips and a smile on her face. She wore a grey dress, from her past Stormcage days, which went to her knees and looked very swish (in the Doctor's opinion) and black tights and very long, worn boots.

"You've changed." She said. Oh, now she knew. She knew when this was. It had only been 1 month herself but as she looked into her eyes, she could tell it was longer for him. Oh, Doctor. How long? But she smiled at him and gestured to his new coat. "Rather dashing, aren't we?"

"Thanks! I thought a change may be good." He said, brightly. But they both knew the underlying meaning. _This is the first step of me moving on. _"Picked it out today. Purple suits my eyes, don't you think?" He bumbled, giving a toothy grin. She laughed and walked up to him and placed a hand to his bow tie.

"Still the bow tie." She smiled, and gave him a quick kiss on the lips. _Its ok, I'm here. _He gave her a smile in return. And then put a hand over hers, clutching the bowtie.

"Bowties are, and always will be…cool!" He said smiling, and then he clutched her hand lightly and went off into the TARDIS. She faltered, just managing to grasp a jacket, scarf and gloves on her table as she went. The TARDIS hummed happily as River walked in.

"Looks like someone's happy to see you!" The Doctor chuckled as he made his way over to the controls. River made her way up to, going left around the hexagonal console whilst Doctor went right. He flicked switches as did she, mainly to correct his faults.

"A bit rusty, dear?" She said, in her usual flirtatious manor. The TARDIS gave a slight groan as the Doctor entered coordinates. He scratched the back of his head and shot her a glare, moving over to the do-lally and the doorway alpha to check the doors were locked.

"It's been a while." He huffed, the words slipping out. River looked at him with alarm. She moved over to him, looking at him intently.

"Doctor…" She said, her voice etched with empathy and understanding, after all, she had lost her parents to. The Doctor turned to face her, his hands by his sides and his fingers rubbing against each other as he did when on the spot. "Doctor, how long?" _How long have you not been travelling? How long since Manhattan? How long have you been like this? How long since you last saw me? How long? _The hidden questions were loud to here and they hung there in the air. It took the Doctor a while to answer and, as usual, he didn't.

"Right! Date night, is it?" He swung into action, the flicky things being flicked and the levers levelled. River dropped it. It hurt him and she knew. She always knew. So she didn't press it.

"Date night it is, sweetie!" She sat back and watched him do his thing. "Where are we off to?" The TARDIS whirred in motion, setting off the usual almighty dim. The floor began to shake and River tumbled towards the console, groaned and reached out to flick the blue stabilizers. The Doctor groaned at the use of the blue boringers but River shot him a look that shut him up.

"1960s, don't know what year, thought it would be good as a surprise! Mustard Restaurant & Bar, which occupies the ground floor of Holyoake Hall, right in the smack bang of Liverpool!" River raised her eyebrows.

"You don't mean?"

"Yes, I do!" He wheeled around and bopped heron the nose before throwing his arms out. "The Beatles!" River laughed, ecstatic. This was what she loved! She had heard of the Beatles as Mels, had to do a whole project on them…never did but always thought their music was good.

"Oh well then…I wanna hold your hand!" She said, and she held it out. The Doctor smiled a small smile and took it and they raced out of the TARDIS together.


	24. Chapter 24

**I am SO sorry! I had mad case of writers block and wasted far to much time on Tumblr (although, when its Tumblr- is it really wasted?) But anyway, just a couple hundered words to say I am still alive.**

**Thank you to all my reviewers- you make me so proud!**

**And to remind you...I DO TAKE REQUESTS :)**

**Heather x**

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**Rain Gods P3**

"Doctor." River ground out as she faced their surroundings. The Doctor had his back turned, grappling with the lock for the TARDIS.

"Yes, dear?" He asked.

"This isn't the 1950s, sweetie." She huffed, sometimes the places they went to were so unpredictable, it was starting to get very predictable. He turned and huffed, his shoulders sagging.

"Well, this place looks boring." He sulked, popping his hands in his trouser pockets. River slung an arm through his and pulled him along.

"Well we might as well have a wander." She said, batting her eyelashes at him. He sighed and then put on a grin.

"Well, new planet! Grand!" And so they walked on.

The planet itself was barren, filled with craggy rocks and cliffs and with tufts of dark green plants scatted. The weather was drab, a fine mist hanging over the planet's bare scape, its air droplets being pushed along by a fierce wind. The sky itself was a grey, like the colour of iron yet with a mix of a dark lilac thrown in.

All in all, not a bad planet. But not the best. It was no Felspoon.

They wandered around, making jokes and comments. River talked about work and tombs whilst the Doctor talked about wormholes and what the plural word for a fez was.

"I am just saying, is it FEZZES or FEZI?" he was explaining to River, who eye rolled her husband and gave his a scathing look. "What?" he implored, holding out his hands as a gesture of innocence. She smirked. He was such a baby in this face.

"Just you, whittling on." She said, her voice turning more affectionate. He smiled and gave her a bop on the nose. She laughed.

Then they were surrounded.

"Well…that escalated quickly." Said the Doctor, sideways to River as they both raised their hands.


	25. Chapter 25

**Hello! Sorry its been so long! Hectic with school!**

**Reviews if you have more time than I do ;)**

**Heather x**

**PS: If anyone is on Tumblr, I have an rp blog! Beingextremelycleveruphere.**

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**Rain Gods: Part 4**

They were led by spear point to a village that seemed from Native American times; huts made of wood and animal hide. Only the hide was a pale blue and the wood from silver-grey trees that littered around the village that looked as though they were wrought by iron. They were led into the middle, the Doctor shifting in his boots and River balling her hands into fists; nervous and expectant. The middle of the old village was pointed out by a roaring campfire, the flames cracking and snapping as the wood burnt and the smoke circled high above them.

A throne was there, surrounded by stumps meant as stools for the lower class to sit on. They were empty but the throne held an occupant. Presumably the chief, the Doctor stepped forward and held out a hand.

"Hello, I'm," Instantly, he was cut off by a bold spear moving quickly to his throat regain and he faltered back, eyes widening. "O-k!" River let out the breath she hadn't realised she had been holding.

"Doctor, that must be their chief." She said, pointing discreetly to the aged man astride the throne. He was clad in leather, dark and worn. He had pale skin due to lack of sunlight and excess moisture. His hair was non-existent and bald skull had a fur trimmed hood attached to his leather breastplate.

"I gathered that River." The Doctor whispered. The men who had caught them where now talking to the chief in hushed tones and alien phonetics. They pointed at River and The Doctor.

"Play nice. Now, tell me, what are they saying? The TARDIS is out of range for me and god knows you can probably speak heathen." She said bitterly.

"Don't be mean to them….oh." The Doctor spoke and then stopped suddenly as the chief answered the men. The Doctor wrung his hands together and skirted around, not look at River. She stamped her foot and glared.

"What oh?" she said, her voice dangerous.

"They may be thinking of sacrificing us." He said bluntly.

"Oh lovely." She said, rolling her eyes and looked away from him, looking around instead for a possible way out, but all she came to were spears in her face. She had only wanted to see the Beatles.

"Glad to see you are thinking about the positives, dear." He said, smiling, missing the sarcasm.

"Sarcasm, husband." She said, exasperated.

"Oh." He said glumly, looking at his boots.

"What are they saying now?" She said, leaning to listen to the alien language. She understood none of it but the tones were getting heated and the chief was nodding.

"Well…now they are talking about appeasing their Gods." The Doctor translated.

"Their Gods?" She asked, puzzled.

"Rain Gods. Of course! We are on Torreniapluv." He smacked himself on his head, realizing. He smiled giddily and then the smile dropped as he remembered the whole about-to-be-dead issue.

"We are on where?"

"Torreniapluv. Loose translation: Torrential Rain."

"Great. So why do they want to sacrifice us? Not that I am not looking forward to death, of course."

"Well. It seems they wish for more rain."

"Oh, a worthy cause then." The men turned suddenly and shouted an order at them, jerking their heads to a mountain path. The spears jutted towards them, urging them on.

"Oh, we need to move I think." He said, and he took her hand, stroking it lightly to reassure her before letting go.


End file.
